He slops some of the stew onto my plate. “More?” he says.
I nod. I hate myself.
* * * *
7:29 p.m.
The beefs tender, melting into soft strings in my mouth. The sauce is sharp, peppery.
I swallow. Lick my teeth.
“Good, darling?”
Darling.
Have to play along. “Yes,dear,” I say.
He puts his hand on mine again.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” he says.
“Lovely,” I tell him. Fuckwit.
* * * *
7:30 p.m.
The phone rings. It’s persistent.
He doesn’t move.
“Answer it,” I say.
“Not tonight,” he says. “This is a special night. We don’t want any interruptions.”
So maybe you should have turned off the ringer.
“It’s annoying,” I say. And it is. Least he could have done was set up his answer machine to take it. At home, four rings is all you get. If I don’t pick up by then, you’re on to the machine.
Still ringing.
“You don’t have an answerphone?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“So how come it hasn’t kicked in?”
“Dunno,” he says. “Takes a while.”
I lay down my knife and fork. “Go sort it,” I say. “Turn it off.”
He looks sheepish as he gets out of his seat. “May as well answer it, then,” he says.
Course, by the time he gets there, it’ll have stopped. I’d bet on it.
The phone’s at the other end of the room. Amazingly it’s still ringing when he picks it up.
“Hello,” he says. Then gives his number.
Doesn’t say anything else.
Just listens.
Then puts the phone down gently, like it’s hurting.
* * * *
7:31 p.m.
“Wrong number?” I ask.
He shakes his head, still standing there, hand on the receiver, receiver in its cradle.
“Not much of a conversationalist, then?” I say. “What did they say?”
He makes his way back to the table, silent.
“Well?” I say.
“You won’t believe me,” he says. He looks bemused, like a stranger just hit him with a fish.
“You’d be surprised,” I tell him.
“It was a man,” he says. “I didn’t recognize his voice.”
He stops. Bites his bottom lip.
“I don’t have all night,” I say. More to the point,he doesn’t have all night. He isn’t paying for that. Just till midnight.
“He said my name.” He looks at me. Looks away.
“And?” I make a circular motion with my fingers to try to speed him up.
“He told me I had thirty minutes to live.”
* * * *
7:32 p.m.
That’s weird, I have to admit.
“Why would anyone say that to you?” I ask him.
He doesn’t answer, just sits at the table staring into his plate. He picks up his fork, holds it for a second, drops it. It clatters against the plate.
“Maybe it was a wrong number,” I say.
He says, “He said my name.”
“Maybe it was another James Twist,” I say.
He doesn’t bother to answer. We both know that’s unlikely.
“It’s a joke, then,” I say.
That piques his interest. “You think?”
“Sure,” I say. “A friend, a colleague.”
“I don’t think so,” he says.
I spread my fingers, palms up.Why?
“I don’t have any friends,” he says. “And I haven’t worked in ten years.”
* * * *
7:33 p.m.
Well, well.
“You’re not an architect?” I ask him.
He shakes his head.
“Were you ever an architect?”
He shakes his head again.
“What did you do? What was your last job?”
“Postman,” he says.
I can’t believe I’m angry at him, but I am.
“You’ve been lying to me for years,” I say.
“Sorry,” he tells me.
“How can you afford to buy a new boat?”
He doesn’t answer.
“That was a lie too?”
“Yes,” he says.
“What about this place?”
“My mum pays for it.”
“Oh,” I say. “She didn’t die when you were four?”
* * * *
7:34 p.m.
It can’t be helped, I suppose. The guy I didn’t like wasn’t the guy I thought he was.
Interesting.
“If it’s not a friend or colleague,” I say, “then maybe it’s a member of your family.”
“Just me and Mum,” he says.
“And it wasn’t her?”
“It was a man,” he says.
“What happened to your dad?”
He pulls a face.
For a second, I don’t know what he’s doing, or why. Then I realize it’s involuntary. A spasm. I’ve never seen him do that before.
He does it again, his eyes screwing up tight, lips curling.
Like he just sucked a grapefruit.
And then it’s gone.
“Your dad?” I remind him.
“He’s dead,” he says. Looks at me. “Honest.”
“I’m sorry.” I reach over and place my hand on his.
* * * *
7:35 p.m.
He moves his hand so it’s on top of mine. He squeezes.
We stare at our hands, don’t look at each other.
Time drags past.
He strokes my hand. Over and over and over again.
I’m intrigued by the phone call. And by what I’m finding out about James.
“Your mum have a boyfriend, maybe?” I say, at last.
He tears his hand away from mine, swipes his plate onto the floor.
Don’t fucking hit me. Don’t you fucking dare.
He doesn’t, although he looks at me like he wants to.
* * * *
7:38 p.m.
He picks up shards of broken plate, lays the pieces on the table.